


the fireworks of 1899

by rizahawkaye



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Recovery, roy gets his eyesight back and who does he see...... ri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizahawkaye/pseuds/rizahawkaye
Summary: A chair skid across the room. Lieutenant Hawkeye took her place next to Roy at the window. He knew it was her because she crossed her leg and bumped his knee on accident, and said, “Apologies, sir.”[Roy reminisces on a childhood memory of Riza. He regains his sight.]
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang, RoyAi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	the fireworks of 1899

**Author's Note:**

> for leo <3

They waited until dark to bring Dr. Marcoh into the building. 

That was what they told Roy, anyway. It was a secret, then, that the Philosopher's Stone would be used to restore sight to Colonel Mustang. “Imagine the unrest if the people realized there was an invention that could heal any ailment,” Fuhrer Grumman said. “They would come asking for its use, surely, and then what would the government tell them?” These were stones borne of a monster’s own vicious desires; of Amestris’s prejudice. Lives bled from their essence; slow trickles continuously and then, once used, a deluge. 

Dr. Marcoh’s footfalls were like that of a large dog. They scuffed and plodded and sounded wholly different from Fuhrer Grumman’s light taps, or Lieutenant Hawkeye’s measured gait. Roy was beginning to understand the sounds of the world as he never had before, though he had only been blind three days. Breaths were erractice in some, careful in others. Soft, low, loud, wheezing; some hands grasped with force and some were so quiet that Roy jolted when touched. Dr. Marcoh’s hands were fat but soft, unweathered by the war which sheltered him as a precious commodity and not a calloused soldier. 

“I’m not sure how long this will take,” he said by way of a greeting. Lieutenant Hawkeye introduced him on his behalf. “This is Dr. Marcoh, sir. He’s brought the stone.”

Dr. Marcoh cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Colonel Mustang,” he said. “I forget myself on occasion. I meant no offense by barging in--”

“It’s all right that you’re not used to introducing yourself to blind patients, Dr. Marcoh.” Roy said. “I’m not someone who is easily offended. Please, I would like to see sooner than later.”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure how long the recovery of your eyesight will take, Colonel. It could be minutes or hours or even days.”

“I’m a patient man.” An understatement, yet true. 

The doctor bent forward into Roy’s space. He smelled the man’s aftershave, the cologne dotted over his collar. 

“You may feel something or nothing at all,” Dr. Marcoh told him. There was a sound like cracking rocks together, and the stench of sulfur. Roy’s face flushed with heat but he saw no color. It was over in seconds. 

Someone drew the curtains open. 

“Please do let me know how long it takes before you regain your sight. My curiosity is insatiable.” Dr. Marcoh chuckled, a bit nervous. “I wish you all the best, Colonel Mustang.”

Roy bowed his head in the direction of Dr. Marcoh’s voice. “Thank you, Dr. Marcoh.”

Lieutenant Hawkeye informed him he was facing the window. They were on the top floor of the Fuhrer’s mansion, she said. People were celebrating the parade grounds restoration below. Someone cracked a window and the smell of wood-fed fire and burnt coals wafted in from the grounds, coupled with the cloying aroma of sugar and carried through the room on stale spring air. Fuhrer Grumman was not present for the stone’s use — citing his fear of being openly connected to this debacle should it and the stone’s existence ever come to light — and instead had burrowed himself away on a different floor of his home. Always the politician. 

A chair skid across the room. Lieutenant Hawkeye took her place next to Roy at the window. He knew it was her because she crossed her leg and bumped his knee on accident, and said, “Apologies, sir.” 

She told him to hold out his hand and then placed a paper cone in it. “Candied pecans,” she told him. 

“I haven’t had these since the carnival in 1899.” He was talking about the carnival in Nieve, where Riza had grown up, and where Roy had learned alchemy. Townsfolk used an old cornfield to set up hayrides and hold axe-throwing contests. They brought their pigs for showing and rode in on horses clad in Amestrian colors. There were pies and hog tying; children were given a _cenz_ if they could catch a piglet doused in oil. A young girl won that year, and her mother sold the piglet to a local farmer, who promised the girl he would not turn it into bacon. (He most certainly did.)

The pecans in Roy’s hands were still warm. He placed one in his mouth and sucked on it first before biting into it, the cinnamon and sugar swarming his tongue. So sweet it almost hurt. It brought the stench of manure to his mind, and the ghost of hay and cornmeal, the hot eastern sun blistering his pale forehead. 

“I think it’s been that long for me too,” said Lieutenant Hawkeye.

They were silent as they ate their pecans. Roy noticed flickers of light punching against the edges of his vision. Accompanied by pops and a crackle like crinkling paper. 

“Are they setting off fireworks, Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Hawkeye’s hand threaded into his. “Yes, sir.”

“We saw these in 1899 too. Do you remember?”

“Yes, sir.”

It took three-hundred-and-twenty seconds before the pulse of diluted color turned into brightly lit starbursts. Soon, Roy could make out the blues, reds, and yellows of the fireworks. They bit into the sky and shattered against the windows, the sparks rolling down the panes like rain. 

Roy might have been all right with remaining blind. There were other ways he could have served his country. Maybe he would have become a vigilante. Though it was more reasonable to imagine himself as a professor or a contractor or, God forbid, a journalist. But the memory of fireworks in 1899, lighting Riza’s face, exploding in her eyes, made him pause. 

He squeezed her hand. It made the wounds in his hand sting, a postoperative ache. 

It was her face he watched as his vision cleared. Remarkably fast. Blessedly fast. 

The colors were still dull, but they swam over her skin all the same. Over the snow white of dressing that wrapped her throat. In her amber eyes, unchanged through so many years. 

“Does Nieve still hold carnivals, Lieutenant?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
